The monitoring room was silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
No tapping keyboards. No humming tech. Not even the whir of cooling fans seemed to dare make a sound as every single staff member stared at the main feed still frozen on the final frame.
Kratos. Standing tall.
The wreckage of the Zero Pointer behind him.
The students—all of them—alive.
One of the control operators blinked hard, as if coming out of a trance.
"…Is it over?" he whispered.
No one answered.
Toshinori Yagi, hunched in his scrawny form, stared at the screen with his jaw wide open. One hand still hovered mid-air where he'd frozen pointing at something. Behind him, Power Loader leaned forward slowly, eyes wide beneath his helmet.
Then a voice broke the tension—a hesitant murmur from somewhere near the side wall.
"…How long did it take?"
Another staff member glanced at the timestamp. There was a soft exhale—almost reverent.
"...Less than... thirty seconds."
A collective gasp swept through the room. Not loud. Just stunned.
And then someone from the drone control section, voice cracking slightly, leaned toward the console.
"Is... is it fine to release this footage?"
All heads turned. Even Toshinori.
But no one had an answer. Because how could they?
It wasn't that the footage was bad.
No.
It was too good.
Too perfect.
The entire confrontation played like a choreographed fight scene ripped straight from the final act of a big-budget action film. Only... it wasn't staged. There were no wires. No CG. No safety nets.
This was real.
The drones they'd deployed—U.A.'s latest marvels—had tracked the Zero Pointer the moment it went rogue. Stabilized, sharpened, focused. They had been built to capture footage so pristine that any disaster could be dissected frame by frame. The plan was to cut a highlight reel afterward—an edit showing cool-headed professionals saving the day. The kind of content that eases public panic and keeps the press in check.
But Nezu had told Kratos—hold the line until the teachers arrive.
And instead...
They'd watched a man dismantle a rampaging titan like it was nothing more than a test dummy dressed in armor.
They saw everything.
Kratos dropped from the tower—fast, heavy, unstoppable.
His chains carving the air.
His boots cracking concrete.
Spear after spear driving into steel like hammer-strikes from a forge long forgotten.
The crane swing. The precise landing. The roll. The rise.
Standing before dozens of terrified students as a living wall.
And then—
The slam.
The flash.
The detonation.
Arms, head, structure—gone.
A sliding mountain of dead machine stopped one meter short of taking even a single life.
All before the teachers even reached the field.
And more than that… he had used no runic attacks.
No frost. No Axe. No flashy, mind-bending move.
He hadn't unleashed half of what they suspected he could do.
And yet he'd made it look effortless.
As if, to him, this wasn't a crisis.
It was... a warm-up.
Like Nezu's call had roused him from a nap.
The screen looped one final shot: Kratos, bending down—not to finish the job, but to acknowledge the student in pain. His broad hand on her shoulder, a silent reassurance that the storm had passed.
No explosion.
No words.
Just stillness.
The most human moment in the most inhumanly efficient display of strength they'd ever seen.
And in that stillness, only one sentence came to mind—a whisper each of them carried in silence:
"This is the most badass thing I've ever seen."
Finally, Nezu broke the silence. His paw steepled beneath his chin, sharp eyes never leaving the screen.
"…Our friend," he said softly, "seems to be much stronger than we anticipated."
Toshinori Yagi didn't answer.
He simply stood.
And in the blink of an eye, the room boomed with a familiar voice:
"OF COURSE HE IS STRONG!" All Might bellowed, fists on his hips, chest wide, grin shining like a sunrise. "WHY, YOU ASK? Because! He is my friend! HA—HA—HA!!"
The silence shattered into nervous laughter and stunned chuckles. But their eyes stayed on the screen.
The drone feed continued. Teachers arriving. Students gathering. And then—Kratos' hand on the girl's shoulder.
Nezu narrowed his gaze.
"To the editor," he said calmly, "include that. Keep it at the end."
The operator nodded, fingers already moving to lock it into the cut.
Outside, the practical examination was ending.
Across the vast expanse of U.A.'s testing arenas, students were filing out—some ecstatic, some devastated. Some limping. Others leaping with joy. Some too tired to even speak.
But whispers spread like wildfire.
Someone had started talking about what happened in Battle Arena C.
But the details were hazy—twisted in transmission.
"They say a Zero Pointer went berserk. Wrecked half the place."
"I heard students were injured. Real bad."
"Wait… injured? What happened?!"
"I dunno, someone said a teacher showed up late. But the robot destroyed like… everything."
Gasps. Frowns. Unease. The kind of murmurs that travel faster than facts ever could.
The truth?
None of them had seen it.
None of them had any idea what really happened.
But there was one thing every student knew.
Every single arena had tested them with a Zero Pointer.
And every single student had run.
Because no matter how brave they were—
None of them were ready to face something like that.
Word spread like wildfire.
Faster than wildfire, even. Like a spark in dry grass during a summer storm.
By the time the last group of students exited their respective testing arenas, questions were already flying. Murmurs turned to whispers, whispers to buzz. What happened in Battle Arena C?
When students tried to ask the teachers stationed nearby, they were met only with polite deflection and tight-lipped smiles.
"It's been dealt with," was all they said.
Nothing more.
No names. No details.
And somehow… that made it worse.
Curiosity twisted into obsession.
If even teachers weren't talking, something had gone seriously wrong.
No answers came.
So they left the venue in murmuring clusters—tired, aching, but wide-eyed with anticipation. Many didn't head home.
They went online—into anonymous forums, group chats, and social media threads—spreading what little they'd heard. Most of it was vague. Disconnected. But it was enough to stir the pot.
And within the hour…
The dam broke.
The internet lit up like a lightning storm in a dry forest.
"Yo, something went really wrong in Arena C—anyone else hearing this??"
"Zero Pointer went rogue. Full rampage. I heard they had to evacuate students."
"Why is no one talking about those explosions?! Like... MULTIPLE buildings gone."
"U.A.'s being way too quiet about this. What're they hiding?"
Theories spread like wildfire—each new post twisting the story further.
Fragments. Hearsay. Hype.
But no facts.
Just enough fear to make it feel real.
And then U.A. High made it official.
A sudden announcement.
A press conference would be held later that day to address a "situation" during the entrance exam.
The word "situation" only made it worse.
Now the world wasn't just curious.
They were watching.
Sudden breaking broadcasts filled the airwaves: "Incident at U.A. Entrance Exam?"
Anchors citing candidate posts as proof.
Panels filled with 'specialists' speculating on what it could mean.
Was this the end of U.A.'s credibility?
Had they endangered children?
By the time the sun began its descent, the words U.A. Press Conference had started trending worldwide.
And at the scheduled hour… the world went silent.
A single camera feed lit up the screen—broadcast on major news outlets, streamed live, shared across every corner of the net.
Principal Nezu sat at a polished table in a clean, quiet room. Behind him, the U.A. crest gleamed in gold and navy.
He bowed his head respectfully.
"Good evening," he began, his voice calm and precise. "I apologize for the sudden nature of this press conference. I understand the concerns that have arisen regarding our recent practical examination, particularly regarding Battle Arena C."
He looked directly at the camera, unblinking.
"There was an incident," he said plainly. "A malfunction in our Zero Pointer unit during the final phase of the exam led to an unexpected rampage. It is something we take extremely seriously, and we will be conducting an internal audit of the incident."
There was a pause.
"But…" Nezu continued, his tone shifting—lighter now, yet steady as ever. "The threat was neutralized swiftly. No examinees sustained critical injuries. This was due to the efforts of our newest faculty member—who, despite being recently introduced to the school, displayed courage, decisiveness, and strength beyond expectation."
He nodded once to someone off-camera.
"Please, roll the footage."
And the screen changed.
A thirty-second clip played.
No commentary. No music. Just raw footage, high resolution, perfectly stabilized.
It began with a lone figure standing atop the tallest tower.
The camera panned to the approaching Zero Pointer—a metal beast thundering through simulated buildings like they were sandcastles. Then, the man leapt.
The fall.
The spark of chain.
The launch from the crane.
The roll.
The rise.
Standing like a mountain between the students and the storm.
A glowing spear. A slam into the earth.
Explosion.
The robot's head shattered. Arms torn from sockets. The machine fell with thunderous finality, grinding to a halt mere meters before the students.
The screen faded to black for half a breath.
Then came the final scene.
The man, now clearly visible—face grim, body battered(mostly just dust sticking to the skin)—stopping beside a crying girl. A broken leg. A whispered thanks. And a hand, wide and scarred, gently resting on her shoulder. Then that silent nod of reassurance.
The footage ended.
Back to Nezu.
A breath passed before he spoke again.
"We wish to assure all parents, guardians, and future heroes… that your children are safe in our hands. We will continue to protect, train, and nurture them to become the heroes of tomorrow. Thank you for trusting U.A. High."
Then, one final bow.
The screen faded out.
And for a few precious seconds… the world was quiet.
But that silence?
Was only the pause before the flood.
All hell broke loose.
News stations scrambled to rerun the broadcast. Headlines changed mid-print. Anchors leaned over desks, eyes wide as their earpieces screamed updates in real-time.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you're just tuning in—we have just witnessed the most unexpected turn of events in U.A. High's history…"
"Forget scandal—this was purecinema!"
"I'm still not convinced that wasn't CGI—was it? Was that real??"
On the internet, things exploded.
Search engines buckled under the weight of one singular question—
"Who has that video?"
Forums were flooded. Threads overloaded.
"Somebody rip that stream NOW."
"U.A. can't just tease us with 30 seconds and vanish."
"WHERE IS THE FULL CLIP?!"
People didn't care about apologies anymore. They didn't care about malfunctioning robots or faculty briefings.
They wanted the video.
They needed to see that man fall from the sky again.
The spears. The chains. The explosion.
The moment.
And as if summoned by the will of the masses…
Five minutes after the conference ended, it happened.
Someone—no one knew who—uploaded the full 30-second clip to Wootube.
Titled simply:
"Kratos vs. Zero Pointer – U.A. Entrance Exam Incident"
And by the end of the day?
It had already surpassed 900,000 views.
Comment sections lit up like wildfire:
"This isn't a test. This is a MOVIE."
"No way this man's human."
"I don't know why, but when Kratos bent down before the crying girl, I felt like crying."
"Same!! I don't know why, but that little nod at her felt so assuring that I actually felt like crying myself!"
"I really want to go to U.A too now. I also want to learn under such a teacher!"
Praise and disbelief danced in equal measure. The visuals were too clean. The footage too crisp. The timing too perfect.
It didn't look like disaster response.
It looked like an intro cinematic.
For a moment, some even dared to think—
"Is this… staged?"
Surely not.
Surely U.A. wouldn't risk students' lives for the sake of showcasing one teacher.
Right?
…Right?
That thought, mercifully, was short-lived.
Dismissed as paranoid nonsense.
Because as incredible as it looked, there was fear in that footage. Dust in students' lungs. Real terror in their eyes. Real relief when the man stood before them, shielding them from death.
And so, the only answer the internet could come up with—
Was that this teacher… was built different.
Kratos.
The name once again surged to the top of search engines across the globe.
His old viral video resurfaced—the battle with Rauk, the axe cleaving through mutated limbs like they were butter.
And now this—
Chains.
Spear.
Shield.
Destruction made graceful.
Kratos.
Top trending across every platform.
Even those who hadn't seen the footage yet were saying it:
"Did you see Kratos?"
"Kratos from U.A.?"
"You mean [Ancient Warrior, Kratos]?"
"F*ck you! It's [Battle Maniac, Kratos]!"
Since, Kratos was not a Pro Hero, he didn't have a hero name. But netizens took it upon themselves to give him a fitting name for his display of strength, calm, and intelligence.
It ranged from [Warrior Kratos], [Force of Nature, Kratos] to [Battle Machine Kratos]. All of them were of course, unofficial and yet to be confirmed by Kratos himself. But netizens found it really fun to think of some sort of fitting name for the 'heroic' new teacher of U.A.
....
And far above the chaos, Nezu watched the trending charts rise on a clean, private screen.
He took a quiet sip of his tea.
And smiled.